Hank turned.
“You shut up.”
Sully moved between them immediately.
“No.”
One word.
Hank stared.
Sully did not threaten him.
Did not touch him.
He simply stood there.
Hank stepped back.
A rider separated from the front group.
Massive man.
Braided beard.
Patch reading OX.
Arthur Callahan.
Ox had worked construction most of his life and possessed the kind of size that made doorways appear smaller.
He looked at Higgins.
The deputy’s hand hovered nervously near his holster.
Ox said quietly:
“Maybe don’t make anybody nervous.”
Higgins swallowed.
“My hand can be wherever I want.”
Ox nodded.
“It can.”
Then stepped away.
No threat.
No contact.
Only awareness.
Sully removed his phone.
Higgins said:
“Who are you calling?”
“People who get paid to sort this out.”
Twenty-eight minutes later, two state troopers arrived.
Then an ambulance.
Then a child-services investigator.
The sight of official vehicles changed Hank more than the motorcycles had.
Motorcycle clubs frightened him.
Paper trails terrified him.
Lieutenant Maria Ortega stepped out of the lead cruiser.
She surveyed the scene.
Hundreds of motorcycles.
One deputy.
One foster parent.
One injured teenager.
She exhaled.
“Who called?”
Sully raised a hand.
“I did.”
Ortega looked at him.
“All right.”
She separated everyone immediately.
Leo sat beneath the gas station canopy with a paramedic.
Hank stood near his truck.
Higgins beside the state cruiser.
Sully remained with the riders.